


Soap and Water

by lizzybizzyzzz



Series: Precious Peter Parker, Punctured Peter Parker, and Especially Everything In-Between [14]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Tony Stark, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Feels, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker was Raped, Peter Parker-centric, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Rape Recovery, References to Depression, Sad, Sad Peter Parker, Teen Peter Parker, The Author Regrets Everything, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzybizzyzzz/pseuds/lizzybizzyzzz
Summary: Peter lets his skin burn under the hot water and barely winces when soap accidentally falls into his left eye. The washcloth slips around the bruises on his hip bones with more ease than Peter would like to admit. He traces them with the urge to rip at that part of his skin. He just gets more soap and continues to lather his dirty body in vain. They’ll be gone the next time he wakes up, but the image is burned to the back of his eyelids.





	1. I Fix Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags

Thoughts were bubbling in his head, he couldn’t push them away like usual.

All because that-that _boy’s_ hands lingered on Peter’s skin as it traveled a little too high on his thigh and a little too low among his back. He fought back a shiver and grit his teeth to push it away.

Peter takes three showers a day to wash off the touches, but they never fail to tickle his pale and damaged skin. He scrubs relentlessly at his legs and neck and he can still smell the sweat and blood caked on him from that night.  

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., skan me for STIs.”

He’s asked this the hour after it happened. He’d stepped foot in his bedroom and locked the door and pulled his own hair out in painful chunks. The teenager chewed on his lip as he waited for the response of the Al. Peter had never really prayed before but he figures now is a good time.

By some miracle, he hasn’t contracted anything. Not clean, but almost halfway there.

Peter lets his skin burn under the hot water and barely winces when soap accidentally falls into his left eye. The washcloth slips around the bruises on his hip bones with more ease than Peter would like to admit. He traces them with the urge to rip at that part of his skin. He just gets more soap and continues to lather his dirty body in vain. They’ll be gone the next time he wakes up, but the image is burned to the back of his eyelids.

He winces as he lifts his arms to yanks on a hoodie. Peter’s stomach is rumbling but he can’t fathom something going back into his mouth, _ever_. His gag reflex is subconsciously triggered and he’s throwing up, right into the toilet. The boy heaves everything into the bowl and neglects the white streaks littering his vomit. More and more until he’s spitting bile and flushing.

He washes out his mouth and rubs the towel over his hair like nothing happened. He quickly brushes his teeth and he slips into his warm bed. His pillow is soaked in water from his hair and he eyes never leave the ceiling and his fingers twitch at the strings of his sweatshirt. The boys’ muscles clench and cramp before the door is opened and light cracks over his face, much to the spider’s distraught.

It's been two days. Two days since he left his room, only heading to the shower. He counts five before his mentor worries.

“Mr. Parker,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. buzzed, pulling him away from his thoughts. She sounds almost sad for him, like she know. “Boss wants you in the lab, he said to ‘hurry your ass up,' as you will, sir.”

"You don't have to call me sir, F.R.I.D.A.Y." He reminds the Al.

She doesn't anser as he pulls himself out of bed and drags his feet all the way down to the lab where Tony is sitting in the spinning chair. He only sits there when someone’s in trouble, and Peter knows it’s him.

“Oh! Mr. Parker.” Tony’s voice is dripping with sarcasm as he turns to look at the drowsy teenager. “Have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.” He says immediately. Peter still feels the  ache in his back and bottom when he sits or lays down and he wishes it would go away. It’s a constant reminder of-”

“Suit yourself. Care to tell me why I haven’t seen you in three days? Or maybe why- not that I’m complaining, you need a _life_ \- you haven’t been protecting the dangerous streets of your beloved borough since then?” Tony drops a little bit of his anger and replaces it with concern. “Did you get hurt?”

Peter wants to scream and have it echo for the world to hear him: _yes! I am very hurt!_

He settles on a squeaky, “I’m fine, Mr. Stark. Just a little tired with school and just-”

“Bullshit!” Tony snaps, standing up and pushing a finger at the boy’s chest. “This isn’t puberty or some measly _homework-”_ It’s in air quotes, his tone is venomous in the cold air between them. “Give it up, Parker.”

Peter flinches at the name and covers it with a weak cough. His chest begins to hurt again and he can feel the promising panic creeping up on him like a monster. He opens his mouth to defend himself but nothing comes out but a weak wheeze.

“Hey,” Tony says softly. Now his eyes are the only evidence he was ever irritated in the first place. Peter can’t help but flinch away from the hand touching his arm. It’s burning him, he’s bleeding from it, the fingernails digging into all of his body parts inside and out and he can’t _breathe._

“Mr. Stark, I’m sorry.” Peter whispered. He can feel his lips trembling and he’s desperately trying to hold in his tears. They cannot fall under any circumstances and he can taste the blood in his mouth that he can’t help but spit out.

“What hurts, Pete? I can’t help unless-”

“You can’t help me!” Peter yells, stumbling from his mentor’s reach.

And fuck, now he’s sobbing. He’s sure his lungs are shaking behind his ribs and the skin on his abdomen is ripping all by itself. Peter’s cries wrack through his body and the lab. His legs are shaking but he forces them to stand tall, he can’t fall again.

What kind of hero was he? Peter could have _easily_ pushed that boy off him. He could have screamed louder, pushed a little harder and he would have been fine. What kind of hero lets some weak boy control him?

Peter Parker was assaulted, violated, raped, permanently dirtied in the eyes of society. Peter Parker isn’t the hero in any situation, Spider-Man always is. Peter Parker doesn’t save lives, doesn’t walk girls home when men follow them and dodge bullets. He lets the building crush him and lets the bad guys get away. Peter trips in the hallways and does nothing but annoy the adults he’s unknowingly wrapped around his fingers like balloons on wire strings.

Spider-Man would have saved Peter Parker, but they’re painfully contrasting in too many areas yet they are too familiar.

Tony breaks the silence. His hands are awkwardly fidgeting like they don’t know where to go and he’s breathing heavily too. Peter can feel the man’s heart rate spike and he finds himself confused. “Kiddo,” he begs, “tell me, I can fix it.”

“It’s me!” Peter wails. “I’m the problem, I’m weak and scared and I can’t even… I can’t…”

What he can’t do is tell Tony. He cannot tell his mentor, he’ll be kicked out, he won’t be an Avenger-in-training anymore. He won’t be Spider-Man.

“Pete, it’s okay to be scared. I’m fucking terrified about what is happening right now, I want to help you. Please tell me, I won’t be mad at you.”

Peter swallows down the lump in his throat. God, he’s about to lose his father-figure for the _third_ time. It’s his fault, _it’s his fault, it’s his fault._

“It’s all my fault, Tony.” He whispers, refusing to look away from his socks. “I could have done something, I could have-have yelled louder or-or done something.” Peter finally looked up his mentor’s scrunched eyebrows and crossed arms. “He touched me and-and did _things.”_

Tony froze where he was. His chest didn’t contract to breathe nor did he blink. His expression was glazed-over fear that confused Peter. The billionaire's jaw was clenched in pure agony that made the teenager sweat.

“Peter.” He breathed, looking _destroyed_.

“I’m sorry.” Peter muttered, unable to prevent the tears strolling down his cheeks. His breath was hitching into sobs again. He hugged his arms around himself and cried until his tears were gone.

“Tell me everything so I can fix it, Pete. What was his name?”

Peter reached out his arms for his mentor and was immediately pulled in. The hand massaging his scalp and the arm wrapped across his back was comforting but not enough.

“Please don’t take the suit, I’m so sorry!”

Tony tensed and Peter wondered if he should let go. The question left his mind when he was held tighter in the embrace. “You’re not in trouble, I’m not mad at you, it’s all going to be okay.”

“It won’t.” Peter bawled, his tears were soaking through Tony’s shirt.

“Yes it will. You know how I know?”

Peter shook his head and looked into his dark brown eyes, they looked like home to the boy. “How?” It was cracky, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore.

Tony sighed and kissed the top of his head. It made him feel clean, the clarified part of his body. “You’re a hero.”

Peter whimpered and balled his fists into the man’s shirt. “I’m not.”

Tony shook his head. “I wanted you to be better than me, ‘member? You’re ten times as great as any hero I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I know _me.”_

He couldn’t help but let out a weak giggle. It was gone before he knew it, and he was back into the hole he would need an army to get out of. He’d need ladders, wires, ropes and none other than Tony Stark.

Peter supposes,

“I’m right here, kid. I’m going to fix this, I fix everything.”

_He isn’t alone._

So when he goes back to his room puffy and red, he gets into the shower and scrubs through his body twice. He consciously missed where Tony’s lips had been, he needs it. It’s clean. His body is still dirty and aches with retrospect. His hair drips from sweat and there’s blood mixed with white seamen still drizzling down his thighs but when he looks it’s soap and water. When he looks at himself in the glass doors his eye bags could hold whole grocery stores and his cheekbones could cut up fruit that his body yearned for.

Peter fiercely scrubs his hip bones until they’re red and the skin would rive on contact but at least it’s not red with fingernail scrapings and bloody spit.  

He watches the water and soap circle the drain and feels a little less dirty.


	2. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this seems a little rushed, it was.

Peter was bouncing his leg and refusing to meet his mentor’s eyes. He stared at the floor and let the perspiration collect across his forehead. God, he needed a shower.

“Please, for me. I want what’s best for you, and it’s this, kid.”

Peter chomped on his tongue in disgust. “Fine.” He grumbled, feeling a sudden nausea.

Tony smiled and clapped his hands together. “Whenever you’re ready, they are.”

Under any other circumstances, Peter would have blushed at the pure speed of the billionaire’s medical team. And at how ready he was to have someone here for the teenager. He’s not worth the trouble he gave the older man, but he kept his mouth shut about that. “Now then, please sir.”

He smiled in a soft, thin line. “I’ll lead the way.”

Peter forced his legs to follow Tony up the stairs and into the brightest room in the entire fucking tower. He winced and ignored the worried glances of the doctors around him. They made him even more anxious.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Helen Cho, I’ll be taking care of you today. If you could step right into this room and put on the gown folded on the bed, I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

Peter nodded and turned to Tony. He didn’t really know why, it felt childish. And he _hated_ that feeling of dependence so he pushed himself into the room and shut the door without anymore questions.

The gown was scratchy and open in the back. Peter shivered when the cold air hit his back and legs, his hair was on edge the entire time.

Peter _really_ needed a shower. He didn’t hear the doctor come in and he accidentally spaced out when she was explaining the procedures. Tony leaned against the door, listening intently and white-knuckling his own hand. Peter could see the man’s fingernails digging into his palms and almost straight through.

“Peter, I need you to answer a few questions. Do you think you can do that.” With a nod from him, she continued. “You can deny any part of the collection or any procedures, just say the magic words.”

Her smile stuck firmly as she read the first few questions. They were simple, like _were you tested for sexually transmitted before you were assaulted_ and   _have you bathed yet_ were easy-answerable.

It was the next few that had even her lips twitch in something Peter couldn’t read. She asked, “Were you penetrated orally.”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “Yes.”

He heard both of their heart rates pick up as she scribbled on her  pad with a blue pen. “Were you penetrated anally?”

“Yes.” He rasped out.

Tony’s jaw clenched and he looked away. He looked paler than usual, his sweat was almost dripping down his face.

“Was a condom used?”

“No.”

From the door, Tony excused himself only to come back suspiciously paler and with wetted lips. Doctor Cho didn’t take her eyes from Peter at the commotion.

“This is going to be uncomfortable and you can deny this, but it’s time for the physical exam. I’m going to need a swab of your genitalia and your anus. After that I need a urine sample. I’ll try to be as quick as possible, I promise.”

Peter nodded and bit his lip. He listened carefully and tried not to cry when she stuck the cotton swab in places the sun doesn’t shine. Tony left for this too, apologising and clamping on his mouth. Peter understands, if he had any food in his stomach it would have come up too. Before this he found himself in the bathroom dry heaving and spitting bile into the toilet. He gripped the bed so tight he ripped through the fabric and into the firm mattress. Doctor Cho reassured him and despite her kindness he couldn't help but resent her. The rational part of his brain knows it his own fault, his fault for being raped and taken advantage of. His fault for making his mentor sick and making this poor lady put a literal stick up his ass. The nicest thing was when she plucked a piece of hair from his head and with her ungloved hand, she ran a thumb over his cheekbone and gave a small smile.

Two hours. It was two hours he held in his tears, two hours of grinding his fingernails to stubs and forcing his body to numb at the cotton rod. It feels like hot medal, scalding him and leaving a permanent scar. Peter supposes one was already left and this was merely the seal of confirmation.

Tony is nowhere in sight which kind of sucks, but he’s a busy man. Peter had been on the wrong end of that statement one too many times to avoid it now. He sighs.

Instead, Doctor “You can call me Helen” Cho escorted him back to his room. She smiled and waved him off, making sure to ask him if he would be okay.

Peter turns on scalding water, hotter than he would usually settle for, and step into the shower. He tugs on strands of his hair and allows himself to think of Doctor Cho’s smooth fingers gliding across his cheek. He has to stop when he remembers where else she had to stick those exact fingers when he almost trips from hacking into the drain. He brushes his teeth in the shower and grabs a washcloth.

Peter lets the soap cascade his skin until it’s practically glimmering. It’s almost enough to where he doesn’t commemorate where the boy’s nails practically brushed his bones. Instead of salt he drinks soap and it’s _disgusting._ But hey, it’s cleaning him from inside out and how can he pass that up?

The teenager has lost count at how many times he watches the soap and water whirl around the drain. He watches until it’s just water making him shiver despite the temperature. He neglects his grumbling stomach and gets dressed. Peter just wants to sleep. He wants to forget if even for a few minutes. There’s always hope that he’ll just wake up from this nightmare.

Peter knows he’s getting no sleep when his door flies open without a knock. He can be mad about the lack of privacy later, but for now he rips the covers off of himself and hops onto the ceiling. Why didn’t his spider sense go off? Stress makes his powers go haywire, so he’s not that shocked.

His mentor is shaking in his doorway, sweaty and hyperventilating. Peter can hear how fast his heart is going, and all of this indicates a panic attack. Probably because of him. He pushes back his guilt and anguish for now and drops back to the floor.

“S-Sorry, f-for startling you…” Tony breathes, clutching his chest.

“It’s okay.” Peter says calmly, slowly walking closer so he doesn’t further scare the man. “I wasn’t asleep anyway. I was going to come find you after… afterwards but I didn’t want to bother you.”

He’s never really seen Tony like this. So terrified and shaken. His hands are so clammy that Peter is afraid they’ll slip right from his grasp. He lets the man calm down a little before touching him, knowing he doesn’t favor it. Instead, he over-exaggerates his breathing and helps him sit criss-cross opposite each other.

The boy listens to his mentor’s heart rate drop, it’s soothing. He’s listening so intently he barely hear when the man actually speaks.  

“‘I’m sorry, Pete. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with some weak-ass old man at your doorstep with a panic attack. I don’t know what I was doing coming to a sixteen-”

“Shut up.” Peter says, earning a drop-jawed look. “First of all, we’re in your house. Second of all, you aren’t weak. With all due respect Mr. Stark, but you were the old that told me it’s okay to get help and that you’d alway be here for me. It’s not a one way street, I got your back too. You think I don’t catch on to the days you don’t get out of bed or don’t drink anything but black coffee? You don’t even _like_ black coffee.”

Tony looks at the ground. He’s still shaking and Peter desperately wants to reach out and comfort him. His eyes are red and he looks as if he’s seen a ghost. “You shouldn’t have to do that, kid. I’m supposed to look out  for you.”

“We look out for each other. That what family’s for, right, sir? You don’t have to talk to me right now, but I think we should in the future, I won’t judge.”

Tony finally meets his eyes. They’re shining and dark with remorse and something Peter can’t read. He can't help but feel embarrassed. It’s sickeningly cliche and not either of their styles. The older man nods.

Peter breathes, panic settling into himself. He did this to the man, it should be him paying the price. “‘M sorry for upsetting you. I d-didn’t mean to make you worry this much.”

Tony rolls his eyes “For my sake, don’t finish that ridiculous apology. Time for Spider-Baby to go to bed.”

Peter doesn’t want to. Sure he wants to forget for awhile, but he doesn't want to _wake up_. The disappointment of doing so will break everything he has. Peter can’t, but he gets into the bed anyway.

He hates himself for this, but after their goodbyes and Tony’s hand is on the door knob, he speaks.

“Wait.” Peter sweaks. His voice sounds childish and afraid, the two things he never wants it to be. “Please.” He pants, pulling the covers away from his neck like they’re suffocating him. “P-Please don’t leave me.”

Tony turns with a soft looks on his face. Peter can tell he’s exhausted after his anxiety attack and he feels bad. He wants to take it back but it’s too late before the man is sitting on the edge of Peter’s bed. "I won't."

He gets more comfortable so he’s leaning his back against the pillows now. He hums in warmth and looks at the teenager.

Peter hates how small he probably looks, how fragile he feels. One of Tony’s hand would crumple him to dust, but it’s a familiar kind of hurt. He pushes away thoughts of the last time he was in bed with someone and nearly makes himself sick when he associated it with Tony.

“C’mere, kiddo. It’s all going to be okay.”

Peter scoots closer and uses Tony’s legs as a pillow. He forces back the flinches as his back is rubbed and hair is carded through. He grips his mentor tight and steady until his hands go limp and he’s breathing easier than he has in years. Tony doesn’t stop what he’s doing and finally, someone’s touches make Peter feel safe. He feels like Tony’s hands are the soap gliding across his own pale skin and now all he needs is water.

Peter supposes, maybe someday he can get on with it.


	3. Heroes Don't Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning- mentions of masturbation

It’s been two months.

Two months of Peter’s life with the whole rest of it to live, with this fucked up remorse.

Eight weeks, two hundred and sixteen showers, he kept count because it’s the only thing his mind wanders too besides that boy’s hands scaling his body like it was a tower.

Sixty two days since spit, blood and seamen were dribbling from the inside of his thighs and tears were silently trailing his cheeks in cries for help.

Almost one thousand four hundred and sixty hours since he was raped.

Two months since he was ripped apart and _so many more_ until his skin would be sewed back together again, rip by tear alike.

So, he screams. He screams bloody murder until his throat is as hoarse as the night two months ago. He cries into his pillow and lets his tears and snot drip into it until it’s nearly soaked. He digs his nails into the palms of his hands and open-mouth pants because his own wails are hurting his ears. His mouth hurts just as much as it did that night from it being locked open again. His toes clench and curl as he remembers that-that _thing_ hitting the walls of the back of his throat and he almost throws up.

Peter takes a deep breath when he hears footsteps down the hallway, and by the sound they’re Tony’s. They sound frantic and exhausted, like he’s trying not to stumble. He can hear how fast the man’s heart is going and he jumps up, wincing at his limp joints. Then, the door slams and Peter covers his ears before the bang can run over his senses like a truck.

Right now, the teenager feels a lot like roadkill.

He falls back onto his bed, thoroughly exhausted from the smallest movements. Maybe his diet of protein bars and energy drinks aren’t doing the trick after all.

Speaking of which, he hasn’t cracked open a Red Bull in awhile. Should he sleep? The mere thought isn't more than a jokes he humors himself with that one. Peter _can’t_ sleep.

Well, that’s a little bit of a lie. He can physically sleep, the darkness encases him like a lullaby. But with sleeping comes the dreaming. Peter likes to think they’re the definitions of nightmares. That boy’s hands gripping his hips, running gentle yet dirty lines along his back and pounding him into the mattress while his cries are muffled by a sock and his hands keep his upright so he doesn’t choke. He can still feel it; his throat closing in on him, his tears blurring his vision, his saliva making him drool down his chin.

Peter shivers and tucks himself in. If he can handle it consciously, constantly running and strangling him while he’s awake, he can handle it asleep.

Oh, he’s so wrong.

Peter’s screams ring through the tower once again, but no one stirs. No one’s there. No excess breathing, no footsteps or even breakfast cooking down the hall.

There’s nobody, Peter is alone.

Just like he was that night, five million three hundred and forty five thousand and eight hundred and eight seven seconds ago. His crying is raspy from that thing down his throat and his stomach flips with remorse. He forces himself into the bathroom and sticks his fingers down his throat. The bile mixed with Mountain Dew and Red Bull sting on the way up, but he’s also throwing up the contents he was forced to swallow or he would have drowned in it. His abdomen aches at the crunching but the burn of it soothes the rest of the phantom aches his body seems to hold onto.

“Shit!” Peter yells, pushing his fist into the white bowl of the toilet. He needs a shower and an intervention. The water will help, the talking part… not so much.

He forces himself up despite the protests in his stomach and grips his phone in sweaty hands. The brightness makes his eyes plead for mercy and his head throb.

Tony doesn’t answer. Tony doesn’t answer again. The fifth time he gives up and scroll to another name.

_“Kid, this better be good.”_

Peter lets a small chuckle leave his lips. “Hey Happy, how’ya been, man?”

The man grumbles across the line. _“Would be better if you didn’t call. What do you need?”_

“I was actually-uh, wondering where Mr. Stark is?”

Happy scoffs. _“Didn’t he tell you? He has meetings all day today. The new launching of the Stark Pad Generation 4.0 is next week.”_

Peter rolls his eyes and hank God Happy can’t see him. “Okay, thanks Hap.”

 _“Don’t call me that, Spider-Boy.”_ On that lovely note, he hangs up.

“Spider-Man.” Peter pouts, setting his phone back down.

He lays down on his bed, tucking himself under the covers again.

The boy forces his mind to go blank and his fingers twitch under the thick duvet. Peter shiveres and makes his eyes snap open when they drift shut again.

Then, there’s hands that don’t belong to him tracing the sharp edges of his collarbones and jawline, fingers feeling the curves or lack thereof on his body. There’s fingers pressing into his backside making him bleed, tears trickling down his face again, fingernails digging into the bones of his hips. Oh god, _oh god,_ he can’t breathe and his lungs are collapsing and his heart stopped beating and his brain is seizing inside his head because that’s the only logical explanation-

“Mr. Parker.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. hums. “I sense the beginning of a panic attack. By protocol, I must alert Boss.”

Peter wheezes. “Go right ahead!” He screams. “He didn’t fucking answer the- he didn't answer me.”

The Al, despite not having a face, seems shocked. “I’ll be on that right away. Would you like help with settling your breathing?”

“Please?” Peter says, guilt eating at him for yelling at her.

“Of course, Mr. Parker. I will gather data from Karen of what a good respiratory response pattern is.”

Peter coerces his chest to rise and fall to F.R.I.D.A.Y’s steady rhythm and he’s never been so grateful for the Al. He takes a last deep breath and falls back into his uncomfortably damp pillows, he doesn’t have the energy to change them yet. He lets his eyes slip shut again just to wake up the same way.

His life is a pattern, too. He wakes up, counts his showers, goes to Tony’s lab and freaks the fuck out when he looks at his suit. Tony then helps him back to bed or a couch and ignores how they both haven’t consumed nutrients in far too long. They part ways, only coming together again the next morning. This pattern goes on for four days.

Four days until Peter is banging on Tony’s bedroom at two in the morning and sobbing himself out of breath.

Ninety six hours and he already broke down, balling himself up when his mentor doesn’t answer in six minutes. Peter’s wondering what’s happening behind the door, but his imagination is skewed when he hears blankets being pushed away and footsteps toward the door he’s leaning on.

Five thousand seven hundred and sixty six minutes until Tony flings open to door, his hair is messy and his eyes are wide, dazed and glassy. His shirt clings to his body by sweat and he looks like he hasn’t slept in years.

Peter thinks he most likely hasn’t.

“Pete?”

Three hundred forty five thousand nine hundred and sixty seconds until the older man is sitting in front of him, hands on the boy’s shoulders and his shushing him, grounding him.

“I’m s-sorry!” Peter cries, face shoved into his clammy hands. “I’m s-so sorry, sir.”

Tony shushing him with a gentle voice, hands still clamping him from floating away. “No apologies. It’s okay, kid. I wasn’t asleep, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

This makes him cry harder. “I did! I did something wrong. You can’t sleep and you have to watch me like I’m a baby and I have nightmares every night and I c-can’t… I c-can’t do anything to s-stop it.”

“I look out for you because I care,” the man says patiently. “I’m worried about you, buddy. It’s okay to get nightmares and not be able to sleep, but I need to know so I can help.”

Peter lets out yet another choked sob. “You can’t fix me.”

“You’re right.”

The teenager looks up at Tony. “What?”

“You know why I can’t fix you?”

Peter waits for him to go on, blinking as his mind clears in anticipation.

“You’re not broken. Something terrible and awful happened to you. You were raped. I know, trust me, I know. But you don’t need me to fix you, Pete. I fix robots and technology for a living, you're nothing like them.”

“I’m not a hero.” Peter retorts, snorting at the words in his mouth.

Heroes don’t get raped. Hero’s don’t let boys stick their _things_ down their throats and make them beg for cessation. Heroes don’t take two hundred and twenty three showers in two months and count how many days go by that’s they forcibly lost they’ll never get back. Heroes don’t cry for their dead parent and aunt and uncles and are left with next to nothing in their wakes. Heroes aren’t poor, they don’t shatter under minimal pressure and definitely have a fan base larger than twelve year old boys. Heroes don’t skip school and drink to get drunk and forget an easy past of love and haven. Heroes aren’t fragile like Peter Parker is.

“You are.” Tony urges, taking shaking hands. “This caffeine is making you shake, kid. How many Monster’s you drink a day?”

Peter takes his hands back and folds them gently in his lap. “Enough.”

Tony sighs. “Too many.” He chastises. “You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I’m an adult.”

Peter gives up that argument, he'll never win. He knows why Tony doesn't sleep, and that sometimes the man doesn't get out of bed. He understands. It happens to the best of them, and Tony happens to be exactly that. “I can’t sleep anyway, Mr. Stark.”

Tony looks sad. Sadder than he would ever admit to Peter. He looks worn down, tired by life and then beaten back again. It made the boy pained with guilt and unease of his own.

“It's okay, kid. How about we make some food. Real food, you're a growing boy after all.” He pauses. “Maybe not too much food, can't have you taller than me.”

Peter made a noise in his throat and stood on his wobbly legs. Tony steadied him with a calloused hand. “Wouldn't be that difficult.”

Tony gawked and took his hand away, gently shoving Peter away from him. “Says you, short stuff. You're a little minx.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Tony chuckled and ruffled Peter's hair. He let the question hang in the air and for the first time in those two months, Peter feels like he isn't dirty. He doesn't feel like a burden or like he needs to buy a new set of skin on the black market, his is perfectly fine.

So when Peter steps into the shower after the whole day of feeling aseptic, he lets himself breathe without the weight crushing his lungs. He doesn't press the cloth as hard into his skin and he only uses two handfuls of conditioner and washes three times through. He even washes his face with charcoal scrub and, _uh-_ relieves himself.

What? Peter has needs, too. And he owns his body, his body has natural functions that interact with his relaxing muscles and a safe environment. He's getting a little tired of ignoring _it_ every time he wakes up or steps under the scalding water. He'd given up using cold water a long time ago. It's a big step considering the last time someone 'worshipped’ his body there were tears on the pillows and blood on his boxers.

He'd burned that pair last week, Tony had clapped him on the back and smiled. It was slightly anticlimactic but Peter was taking victories where they came.

Peter let's the released endorphins course through his veins and he smiles thinly as he slumps against the shower wall.

The violation seems to no longer be a disaster, it was a surge of power that Peter could control something in his life related to it. He has power over this, and _holy fuck_ was he going to use it more often after it's discovery.

Peter watches the soap and water go down the drain for the two hundred and twenty fourth time and he thinks in another lifetime,  _he’ll be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do not DO NOT fucking tell me that teenagers don't masturbate. I'm one of them, it's a hoax. I don't give a fuck. 
> 
> AND I've also done quite a lot of research on how masturbation is connected with survivors of rape, and 90% said it was liberating. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Not everything works for everyone though. Everyone copes differently, and Peter Parker is a teenage boy going through puberty, may as well wrote him like it is. He's not perfect.


	4. Red

  
  


Sure, Peter would go back to school. It was his junior year after all and life was… getting there. He’s had his ups and downs like any high schooler; the tests, the studying until ungodly hours of the morning and downing coffee like it was an anti-stress antidote. Tony had found him hanging from the ceiling with his face shoved in a book too many times. 

Peter was absolutely  _ acing  _ the year. He’d gotten high marks on his report card and it was finally spring break. 

See, Peter was a master at pushing away his trauma. He’s been shot, stabbed, thrown off bridges and raped and he refused to let any of it hold him back anymore. Tony promised that with a diploma, a membership to the Avengers was calling his name. 

_ It _ still got to him sometimes. Ned would steady him by the hip and he’d freeze, or MJ would whistle as him lovingly but to Peter it was practically a death sentence. 

The biggest incident he’d had in public was when his gym teacher yelled out at him. 

_ “Looking good, Parker!”  _  Coach Wilson had yelled, not unkindly. 

Peter’s brain short-circuited at the declaration.  

For the first time in a while, his hips were burning from fingernail digging into them and he was choking when the boys  _ thing  _ touched his tongue and he was all but begging for mercy. He was below that boy and his back was arching in pain and he was sobbing around the cloth pressed carefully into his mouth and he was throwing up,  _ god _ , he was throwing up everything in his stomach just like he did that night. That night he was battered ruthlessly into a stranger’s mattress and blood stained the sheets and his hair was yanked from his head and  _ fuck- _

“Peter?” Ned said concerningly, placing his hands on the other teen’s shoulders. “You gotta chill, dude. There’s people staring at you.” 

Peter was frozen in place. No matter how hard he wanted to run his legs were planted like they were stapled to the ground. His blood was ice-cold and it was like he was having an out-of-body experience. Oh god,  _ not here, anywhere but here. _

When did he ever get what he wanted? 

_ “C’mon, Penis. Another drink won’t kill you.” Flash taunter. He scampered away, not before shoving another solo cup into Peter’s hands.  _

_ The teen wanted to argue that _ yes, drinking can kill you! 

_ He took another sip instead and went to find Ned. The bright lights and the loud music making the furniture vibrate was really doing things to his sense, they were dulled down and numb. He couldn’t find it in him to really care. He was floating, he was at peace. For once he couldn’t hear was happening in the kitchen three houses down.  _

_ Peter barely felt when he was being ushered into a bedroom. He didn’t hear the lock click or even the door slam shut.  _

_ What he did feel was a boys’ fingertips feeling him everywhere, shoving them in his mouth with grace. Peter’s tongue was protesting but they didn’t relapse. He was drooling down his chin uncomfortable and he finally moved his head away. _

_ “Did I say you could fucking stop, Parker?” The boy snarled. Despite the harshness of his words, he was smiling sweetly. It was a big contrast to his lust-blown pupils and raspy breath.  _

_ “Can I p-please?” Peter said, putting his hands on the boys shoulders and trying to push them apart as gently as he could. “I d-don’t want this.”  _

_ “That’s crazy dude, you were practically begging for it a few minutes ago. These pants are way too tight and only boys that cuff their jeans like it in the ass.”  _

_ “S-Stop. I said no. Let me go.” Peter pleaded weakly. He could feel the tears brimming his eyes as the boys grip got impossibly tighter.  _

_ “You want me to die of blue balls?”  _

Peter compelled his legs to move so quick he stumbled over himself. He got up pretty quickly when he realized people were staring. They were staring and laughing and  _ pointing _ . Everything the boy could not handle right now as the memories of that night flow through his head like it happened a few hours ago. His body tingled with remembrance and his eyes sting with hurt. 

Peter finally stops when he’s at the subway station. He needs a distraction, something to get away from this. He realizes he has the perfect distraction, a vigilante alter-ego. 

Spider-Man. 

So, he goes into a stowed away alley and slips the suit on. He slaps the spider-emblem and the suit tightens around his body like tape. 

“Welcome back, Peter.” Karen says softly. 

Peter smiles. “I missed you, Karen.” He admits.

If she could smile, he thinks she would have. “I missed you as well. Would you like me to display possible iniquity near you?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

“Of course, Peter.” 

Of course, it’s this. The viewfinder in his right eyes shows the grainy street camera recording. A little girl is screaming murder, her chubby legs aren’t carrying her fast enough and her black braided hair is bouncing behind her. She looks back every two seconds, but Peter can’t see what she’s actually trying to get away from. 

“I need the fastest way to get there, Karen.” He says frantically, webs aimed at the tall buildings that make up the borough. 

“Setting fastest course now.” 

And he goes, as fast as he can, probably faster than he’s ever moved. The girls screams can be heard now, a large thump and a man yelling. 

Peter turns into the alleyway again and his eyes widen. 

The little girl, her dark skin soft and bruised, the tears and blood. She crying, screaming as she beats on the man’s chest and shoulders as he yanks her green skirt down he her ankles in a swift motion. 

Spider-Man drops right onto his shoulders and stomps directly on his bald head. He yells, clawing at the ground in pain and he howls when the boy webs his bare middle to the pavement. 

Peter has to step back before he breaks his moral code. He turns to the girl and feels absolutely sick. 

“Pwease don’ hur’ me.” She whines, her speech impediment making his stomach flip. She’s so  _ young _ . So innocent, she couldn’t be more than five and there’s blood in her hair. She scrambled to pull her skirt up as fast as she could. Peter turned to give her some privacy while she fixed her clothes. 

He turns when he hears her stop. “I won’t hurt you.” Peter says, putting his hands up in a surender motion. He crouches in front of her, meeting her eyes. “What’s your name?”

She looks around anxiously, her body trembles. “Mommy ‘old me she’d be-a back. ‘Old me neva go with s’angers. Can’ ‘ell you, sir.” 

“Hey, Spider-Man is friends with everyone. We’re friends, can you tell me your name.” 

The man groaned behind him. Peter took a second to kick him square in the jaw, rendering him unconscious.

She shook her back and backed into the dirty brick wall. “Mommy ‘old me s’ay ‘way from s’angers. We jus’ meet!” Her lips upturned a little. 

Peter took a deep breath and fisted the top of his mask, pulling it off completely. He didn’t miss how her big brown eyes widened as her little arm reached out. “I-I’m… P.” 

She giggle. “Pee? Like pee-pee?” 

Peter smirked. “Exactly. Now that you know me, can I know you?” 

“Zendaya.” She held her hand out for him to shake. 

Peter smiled wider and grasped her hand in his own. He ignored the blood that was seeping into his suit from it. “That’s a very pretty name. Do you know where your mommy is?” 

Zendaya frowned and stepped closer and looked around. “I don’ know.” 

Peter wiped away a few stray tears with his thumb. “That’s okay. We’re gonna find her, but I have to put my mask back on, okay?” 

She nodded, her hand was still clamping Peter’s. Karen greeted him when it was back over his head. 

“Karen, I need you to call the police. Send them the location and tell them there’s a rapist by the trash.” He spoke quietly so the small girl didn’t hear what he’d said. She was grabbing his fingers with both her hands now, no sign of ever letting go.

“Of course, Peter.”  

Spider-Man turned to Zendaya and opened his arm. “We’re gonna go on a little trip. You like flying? You gotta hold on, though.” 

She nodded eagerly and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. He rubbed her back soothingly and secured it around her. He used a little bit of his powers to stick them together before he shot a web at the tallest building. Zendaya squealed under his arms and they swung away. 

It was fairly easy. Thank god Peter thought to stick them together, because when Zendaya saw her mom she let go of her grip and pointed, screaming right in his ear. 

Spider-Man walked through the large door of the tower sluggishly. His body was sore and his muscles were shaking with the need for a break. After he made sre Zendaya was safe, he’d stopped three muggings, a robbery and gotten a free churro from that same Dominican lady. He chastised himself to remember to buy her one some day. 

The boy heard his mentor’s footsteps coming toward him. They were quick, loud and frantic, meaning Peter would be in trouble. It was worth it after all, he couldn’t find himself to care. 

“You better have a good reason as to why it’s three in the morning and you’re limping through those damn doors like you got hit by a bus.” 

His mouth wasn’t working and Peter’s throat was closing in on him. He was so tired, worn out. Exhausted from life and he was only sixteen. But the years ahead were already damaged, burdened with this trauma and the sadness of his past. He didn’t expect anyone to understand or even care, he just wanted peace. A bed to lay in and swallow him whole. 

“I’m trying to help you, kid.” Tony snapped. 

Peter’s lungs contracted painfully and he sat himself down. Thank god he’d made it to the couch before he had a panic attack. It was the little things really keeping him together. 

Tony kneeled in front of his knees and took his hands, just like Peter had done with Zendaya. “Tell me what it is. I can help you, buddy.” 

Peter wheezed and didn’t even try to hold back the sob that coursed through his body. He leaned forward into the billionaire's touch, letting his head slump onto the man’s shoulder. He felt himself being pulled in, anchored to reality. 

Tony whispered soothing words in his ear and held him there. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Peter chanted breathlessly. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay, I forgive you.” Tony said into his ear. “Everything is okay, kid.” 

When Peter stepped under the shower head that night he couldn’t bring his hand to open the cap of soap. He couldn’t touch the cloth because it was scar and burn his skin. 

So the teenager stood in silence as the scalding water hit his back and he could feel the lingering touches on his back and hip and jawline. He could feel a hand circling his throat but he couldn’t bring himself to feel if one was actually there. Reality and his nightmares were blurring together rapidly and the thin line between them was blurred in his head.

Peter watched the water go down the drain, suspiciously tinged with red and he closed his eyes to the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ill edit this after work, sorry it's like this but its more of a filler chapter. more to come :)


	5. End

Peter wasn’t having such high hopes anymore. 

His life wasn’t turning in any unexpected directions, those were long gone at this point. 

He still got nightmares and felt fingers trace his body when he least expected but he just clenched his hands and waited it out. 

Spider-Man was absolutely  _ thriving _ . He’d been saving people left and right, helping little kids and getting cats out of trees. 

After all, the city never sleeps. 

Tony teases him sometimes, says things like  _ ‘if you want an easy job head to Rochester or something.’  _ He says it as if Peter could ever leave Queens. As if he’d trade this home for another like it was a recyclable. 

The voices telling him that he’s in danger don’t frighten him anymore. It gets to him but logically, if he was in danger his spidey-sense would stab him in the neck. His hair would stand on edge and he’d throw on his suit easily. 

Tony has to ground him sometimes, other times he can’t. His mentor holds him gently and rubs his back. He tells him that it’s not  _ that _ night anymore. 

When Peter lays in the darkness at two in the morning he can feel it. He can feel his body being pushed into the sheets and his backside trembles with remembrance. His throat closes and more times than not he ends up throwing up and staring at the ceiling. He rips the blankets from his bed with shaky hands and lays on the bare mattress in solitude. 

Once in a while Tony will check on him to see the trembling teenager, shivering and not from the cold. His soft whispers and hand holding aren’t always enough to help, but Peter appreciates the effort. It’s more than he thinks he’s worth.

“The therapy isn’t helping.” Peter mutters as Tony pushes him through said doors. 

The man sighs. “Then it can’t hurt.” 

Peter goes twice a month.

Twice a months for a year he talks about that fucking night, it’s making it worse. Tony sits next to him and holds back his gags as Peter tell the nice lady about that night. It seems like new detail emerge from thin air and she gives him pills for the stress. 

Tony buys him a frappuccino and they walk around the park once a week. 

Peter gives him a weird look the first time. “You don’t have to do this.” 

Tony shrugs. “Family bonding, you need someone to look up to and I fully intend on being that person as long as I can.” 

He doesn’t question it again. He answers his mentor’s questions and laughs along to his jokes and he forgets. For forty five minutes he forgets that his body is permanently dirty beneath his clothes. Forty five minutes and he listens intently to Tony talk about new projects, about Pepper and anything they can think of.

It’s the constant variable in his life. 

When he has a bad day, he walks into Tony’s lab and prays he isn’t too busy. For Peter, he never is. Peter should know but he still doesn’t. 

“Mr. Stark, can we go for a walk?” 

Tony nods immediately and smiles. “Sure, kid. You want a coffee or whatever that slushie thing is that you like?”

Peter enjoys these days, when he gets back he hugs the man with cold hands and says thank you.

“Don’t sweat it, Pete.” Tony says in his ear. 

The showers after these days are peaceful and relaxing. He doesn’t burn his skin with the water (too much, that is) and the soap makes him squeaky clean. 

Other days the soap goes down the drain as thick as blood and his eyes focus on the scalding water to keep from envisioning the scratches along his back and the nail-prints the scared his hip bones forever. 

He thinks of Tony’s words to keep from smashing his head on the shower walls. 

_ “Family bonding…”  _

The water and soap drip from Peter’s body and it occurs to him: the thing that happened to him doesn’t define him. He is whole, he will be okay. Maybe not soon, maybe not in five years, but he will be. He closes his eyes and thinks about how it was before the boy touched him as he cried. He was naive, innocent,  _ invincible. _

Peter reaches until his hands slip on the metal dial. He turns off the water and steps away from the shower.  __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen, i had more planned for this, but i honestly didn't know how. Im sorry this is a shitty ending, but its the only one i can give. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> im not saying comments make me write faster, but comments make me write faster


End file.
